


All Very Miss Marple

by thinkpink20



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-23
Updated: 2012-02-23
Packaged: 2017-10-31 15:46:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/345824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thinkpink20/pseuds/thinkpink20
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock, John and an expensive hotel.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All Very Miss Marple

They are staying in a hotel for a case - all a little bit too Miss Marple for John's liking - and their bedrooms are next door to one another. It's much like being at home, except someone else brings Sherlock's tea instead of John, just for a few days.

He's just buttoning up the final few buttons of his shirt when Sherlock suddenly walks through the door, key-card for the room held to his lips in thought.

"How did you - ?" John frowns at the sudden invasion of privacy but Sherlock simply sets himself down on the bed, forehead wrinkled in concentration.

"I obtained a second key to your room, just in case. Now do we think the identity thief would go down to breakfast with the other guests or request room service?"

John shakes his head slightly at his reflection in the mirror. "Depends how confident he is that he won't get caught. And just in case of what, exactly?"

"Very confident, I suspect; re-visiting the scene of the crime, staying in the hotel where he first met his victim."

"Sherlock," John sighs, considering his open wardrobe - tie or jumper? "In case of what, exactly?"

Sherlock waves an idle hand. "Fire, attack, needing to talk ideas through with you."

"At me, you mean," John replies, fingering his favourite red tie. Well, it is a posh hotel. "Didn't you bring the skull along?"

Sherlock frowns. "Don't be ridiculous, John; no one holidays with their skull. Not even me." John is just considering that actually his question _hadn't_ been ridiculous given the fact that Sherlock previously used the skull as a flatmate and colleague when there is yet another lazy drawl from the bed. "Jumper rather than tie, I think." When John turns around, Sherlock looks for all the world as though he is still busy concentrating of the fraudster arriving for breakfast, but he meets his eye briefly and nods. "The cream jumper, in fact."

John glances around the room as though possibly Sherlock is talking to someone else. "Excuse me? Are you - are you picking out my clothes now?"

Sherlock shrugs. "I like the cream one, it suits you."

John has a visible kind of stutter and then frowns deeply. "What?! Who are you, Gok Wan?"

Immediately, Sherlock frowns. "Who?"

"Never mind." Incredulous, John grabs his cream jumper from where he neatly laid out his clothes the previous evening in the foreign wardobe and pulls it over his head. Sherlock is still living out of his suitcase next door of course, and the place looks a mess, but clearly John has woken up in some sort of parallel universe if Sherlock is now his fashion advisor, so none of it really matters. "Right, breakfast?"

They walk down to the magnificant dining hall together; the identity fraud suspect is clearly enjoying himself in luxury spending someone else's money because the place must be five star at least. (Though John wouldn't be surprised if they'd created a few extra stars, just for here.) Sherlock looks utterly at home of course, being waited on hand and foot, though John is taking a little extra time getting used to it.

Whilst tucking into the glorious full English he ordered with the waiter, John glances across at Sherlock's empty plate and leans forward a little bit. "It's going to look suspicious, you know - if you don't eat."

Sherlock pauses in his scan of the rest of the dining hall to frown at him. "Why?"

"Well, it's _breakfast,_ Sherlock - people usually eat. Can't you just have a bread roll, or something? Some cornflakes?"

He looks away at the vast selection of cereals on a side table and John notes the graceful curve of his neck, the fine, aristocratic features. Sherlock is beautiful in lots of ways, he thinks, then realises these aren't thoughts he should be having at the breakfast table.

Or at all, really.

He shakes his own head very slightly, as though to clear it.

"No," Sherlock eventually replies, "I don't eat when I'm working."

"Perhaps not, but it's still going to look a bit weird. Maybe get something just for appearances?"

Sighing like a put-upon teenager, Sherlock rises from his seat and goes to the cereals table. When he gets back, John is already halfway through his eggs and moving on to the toast.

"Why did you shake your head earlier?" Sherlock asks, and the question takes him by surprise.

"Pardon?"

"Whilst I was looking at the cereals, you looked at me and then shook your head - usually this follows something unsavoury that I've said or done and is quite often justified but I was under the impression I was being exemplary this morning."

John almost smiles. Only Sherlock could announce himself as being exemplary.

"Nothing, I was just thinking about your eating habits, that's all."

Sherlock brings a mouthful of muesli to his lips and meets John's eyes across the table, pausing as he interogates him merely with the power of a look. Used to this, John just sits through it, keeps his features calm and tries not to think revealing thoughts. Sherlock, he often reminds himself thankfully, might be good, but he can't read minds. Yet.

It's something that has saved John's life several times in the past, because he's sure that if Sherlock had _known_ what he was thinking, he'd have been thrown out of Baker Street and dispatched by Mycroft at a future date.

Definitely, given some of the things he's thought.

Eventually Sherlock looks away, giving up. For now. John classes that as another battle won.

\------------

Several hours later they are sitting in the hotel bar, watching the suspect entertain two leggy blonde women at the expense of someone else's credit card. They have to actually catch him in the act, but so far he's been putting everything on his room bill so they haven't actually seen him flashing any plastic about. It's very frustrating.

"How much longer do we have to watch those women drooling over him?" John asks, slumping back in his seat. They've been sat here four hours.

"Jealous?" Sherlock asks, though he never takes his eyes from the suspect, watching him covertly in the mirror above the bar.

John rolls his eyes at him. "No thanks, I think I'd fall asleep if I had to muster up the energy to flirt with someone at the moment; sitting here all afternoon appears to have rotted my brain."

Sherlock takes a sip of his drink; John has been on lemonade all afternoon but he has no idea what Sherlock is having, given the fact that he's been the one to keep returning to the bar to order. It looks vaguely like whisky, but John can't really imagine him drinking on a case, so maybe it's apple juice. He certainly doesn't seem any more relaxed than normal.

"Yes," he replies, licking his lips as though to catch the taste of his drink. John wonders how sweet his mouth would be now, if it really is apple juice in that glass. His mind stutters distractingly over the thought of it. "It's considerably more conveniant to have a partner with whom all of that endless impressing is overwith. So tedious."

John takes another gulp of lemonade and doesn't bother repressing his smile. "Like you'd know," he says, realising his tongue sounds more loose than normal. Odd, he thinks, but goes on. "I bet you've never flirted with anyone in your life."

For the briefest of seconds Sherlock takes his eyes off the mirror above the bar and glances at John. His eyes are unreadable. "I've had the task of trying to impress someone I desire to spend more time with, trust me."

John snorts, then wonders what the hell he's doing. When did he start feeling stupid enough to _snort_ in the public bar of a five star hotel?

He glances down at his glass, leans forward to grab it in order to take a sniff when Sherlock clicks his tongue. "Oh calm down, it's just a few shots of vodka."

"Vod - " John splutters. "You've been - Since when did you - " His brain feels slow and lazy and he wonders how he didn't notice before that he has been becoming warmly and nicely drunk. "Sherlock, why?"

Sighing as though having to explain himself is a chore, Sherlock replies. "Your leg began giving you pain approximately an hour after we sat down, you were rubbing it; I knew that you wouldn't stop thinking about it given that your brain isn't occupied with something else so since then I've been ordering every other one of your drinks with a shot of vodka."

John gapes, barely able to believe it before - "You've been getting me drunk!"

Sherlock slides his eyes from the mirror to John and then sharply quirks a smile. "Complaining?"

Perhaps it's just because he now has a couple (how many, two, three?) of shots of vodka inside him, but John senses something other than their usual friendly banter in that, so he lets the warm, comfortable atmosphere take over and feels himself smile. He might have even bit his lip, briefly.

"Depends what you're doing it for, I suppose."

For the briefest of seconds he worries that he's taken it too far with this, but then Sherlock's eyes flicker - minutely - to his lips before replying. "At least I'm doing it on my own money," he says, then waves his credit card cheerily, and John can't help laughing. "What?" Sherlock asks, surprised at the reaction.

"Check the name," John smirks, still feeling that warm, blooming feeling in his stomach. He hasn't been just nicely drunk in ages, had forgotten how lovely it could feel. He watches as Sherlock glances down at the card in his hand then returns his grin.

"Oh dear."

"Yes," John says, laying his palm out across the table. "You appear to be using my credit card without my knowledge. Maybe I should shop _you_ to Lestrade for identity fraud?"

Sherlock (still smirking) places the card easily in John's open palm, letting his fingers graze across the skin there for far longer than is necessary. "You wouldn't," he says.

"No, you're right, I wouldn't." John slips the card back into his pocket, feels his hand tingling pleasantly where they've just touched and tries to ignore the over-powering sensation. "Though these days we should probably just set up a joint account somewhere, we've been swapping cards for so long."

He thinks - no, he _knows_ that this is going too far until Sherlock's features take on a more serious, considered look. There is a heartbeat of waiting and then - "Fine, I'll get Mycroft to arrange it when we return to Baker Street. Barclays alright with you?"

ohn almost chokes. A joint bank account? Seriously? "Fine," he hears himself say. "Definitely."

After that they both have some serious looking elsewhere to do.

\----------------

At just before ten, Mr Identity Fraud calls the waiter over to order a bottle of champagne to be delivered to his room and both he and the leggy blondes rise from the table, all swaying slightly and wearing the same expectant grin.

John is just gratefully wondering if this means he can now fall asleep in his chair when Sherlock rises also, grabbing their room keys from the table. "Sherlock, where - "

"We're following them," Sherlock tells him quietly, collecting John's jacket and holding it open for him, one eye still on the trio organising themselves across the room. "Come on."

"What?" John lets himself be moved backwards into the arms of his jacket, dressed swiftly and precisely by Sherlock before feeling a guiding hand nestle firmly in the small of his back.

"Walk like you know where you're going," Sherlock says, and then he's manouvering them both through the room, over towards the door the trio have just left by, heading towards the lift. John concentrates on the hand at the base of his spine, warm despite the layers of material between them.

The suspect and his 'friends' are so wrapped up in one another that they pay no attention to the two men who get in the lift with them, and when one of the women lean forward to brush lips promisingly with the man they're following, John finds himself blushing embarrassingly, glancing away down to the floor of the lift. Next to him, Sherlock shows no signs of having noticed, but John doubts he's missed a thing like that.

Before they get to their fifth floor destination, the trio have cast off any sign of still acknolwedging their public surroundings and have started kissing openly between them, the three eager bodies curving into one another and touching without embarrassment or shame. John sort of can't help but see as the walls of the lift are all mirrors and he feels himself flush as he watches one of the women glance a tongue against the fraudster's lips. The enclosed space is considerably too small as the other woman then joins in, placing an impatient, ready kiss to the man's neck, and John feels himself reacting in the most uncomfortable of ways as he realises just how long it's been since he last did something like that. Too long. And the lucky man in question has a hand on both of his companion's waists, fingers sneaking up slowly beneath the edges of their shirts...

When suddenly the lift door pings and the trio pile out in a giggling mass of limbs, neither John nor Sherlock move. He knows that _his_ brain has suddenly turned to an aroused pile of mush but John had been of the belief that Sherlock was above all that.

"Why aren't we - ?"

"I think it's obvious where they're going," Sherlock says quickly, then steps forward sharply to press the third floor button, clearly heading back down to their rooms. His voice sounds tight and uncomfortable and John finds himself wondering if Sherlock is feeling the same hot, almost aching curling low in his belly that he is. The thought of that makes his throat run suddenly incredibly dry and John has to swallow loudly, raking an embarrassed hand through his hair. He finds himself stepping casually away from the body next to him now that the lift space isn't so limited and he hopes Sherlock doesn't guess why.

When the lift eventually stops for a second time on their own floor, both John and Sherlock step out silently, the air suddenly unaccountably tense between them. John feels embarrassed, first for having been so obviously flirtatious down in the bar and now for having had such obviously desirous thoughts about doing with Sherlock what that trio had been doing in the lift. He feels like his thoughts have been written all over his face, and when they arrive back at the respective doors to their rooms (still in silence) he is very glad to be getting out of the uncomfortable atmosphere.

"Right, well," he says, pushing another open hand through his hair. "Night, then."

"Yes," Sherlock nods curtly, "Goodnight, John."

It would, of course, be so easy, so simple, to just step forward and pull Sherlock to him to test whether he really has had the same reaction to that little show in the lift, but -

Well, John might have been to Afghanistan and patched up innocent civillians in the middle of open warfare but even he's not that brave. So he simply steps inside his room, hears Sherlock's door slam behind him and closes his own. He leans back against it and breathes out slowly, steadily. He's still warm and vaguely fuzzy from the alcohol and John considers a shower before bed but in the end he gives up on the pretence at cleanliness because his mind is still showing him some rather filthy images, anyway.

Stepping away from the door, John tugs his jacket off and throws it over the near-by chair before removing his jumper and grabbing the remote control for the TV. It's still early so there might be something good on, something to take his mind off these hugely innapproriate thoughts, and he's lying back on his pillows, flicking through the channels when -

For the second time that day, the door to his room opens without preamble. No knocking, no waiting to be let in, just Sherlock. Looking distinctly dishevelled, now without his jacket.

John is about to open his mouth to ask what the bloody hell is going on when suddenly the bed is dipping as Sherlock climbs on, and he's barely had time to take in the rather delightful image of ruffled hair and an undone collar before Sherlock's mouth is on his.

He appears to have dispensed with the nervous, uncertain feelings and cut straight to the part where John obviously wants him too, so John doesn't bother interupting the kiss to ask how Sherlock _knows._ He just kisses back, pulls the willing body down against him and arches into the fingers sliding through his hair. It feels good - very good, much better than he could possibly have imagined, actually, and John bites gently down on Sherlock's bottom lip to stop himself from groaning.

After several frantic moments of mouths sliding together, tongues grazing until sparks flicker down in John's stomach and Sherlock's cool fingers grasping at John's waist to pull him closer, they break apart for air. John had almost forgotten that it's a vital commodity.

Sherlock meets his eyes. "This alright?" He asks, breathing uneven and catching, sending even more tendrils of heat to the now aching weight between John's thighs.

"Definitely," John nods, fingers grasping desperately at the collar of Sherlock's shirt. "Absolutely perfect." Then he kisses him again, and John decides that maybe Miss Marple hotel-based mysteries are rather fun, after all.


End file.
